I’m sitting here and writing this with one ear lent to my playlist and the other at the mercy of the slightest sound of your breath. My eyes constantly darting from this journal to your bassinet. My arms ready to drop any and everything if a chirp from you orders their embrace.
of trying and of age.
This is your shelter. A neat setup which keeps you questioning whether it’s worth investing in any sort of permanence. An illusion. A temporary solace for a permanent soul.